


Up In Smoke And Mirrors

by verucapsalter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Crowley's Century-Long Nap (Good Omens), Demons, Episode 3 Cold Open Compliant, Ghosts, Holy Water, Holy Water Argument, M/M, Magic, Mission Fic, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Original Character(s), Period Fiction, Pining, References to The Prestige (2006), Spies & Secret Agents, Spiritualism, Street & Stage Magic, The Arrangement (Good Omens), Undercover Missions, except they're both idiots, the golden age of magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-19 07:09:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22040437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verucapsalter/pseuds/verucapsalter
Summary: Forty years into their cold-shoulder holy water standoff, Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves working for rival magicians. Heaven is invested in understanding a new threat and Aziraphale discovers all his earthly comforts are at risk. In the world of magic, nothing is ever as it seems.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 9





	1. A Production or Creation.

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILER WARNING: This story contains explanations of several stage magic illusions and sleights of hand, to varying degrees of detail. I don't want to be responsible for ruining people's enjoyment of theater, so if this is the type of thing that will spoil your fun, please take that into consideration before proceeding.
> 
> Chapter titles taken from Devant's list of the seven types of magic tricks.

**1898\. LONDON.**

Aziraphale was developing _hobbies_. He had decided, over time, that this was better off for his job— angelic duties, not the bookshop (or so he told himself). He spent more time dispensing miracles, and submitting all his reports with a solidly higher level of studious accuracy than they had seen in several hundred years. Despite pouring himself into his work, he found his cup overfloweth, and had followed his curiosity all over London. He had learned a dance, and taken up sleight of hand, and started appraising his accumulation of snuffboxes. When he had exhausted those activities, he had begun to devote his time to re-reading and cataloguing his entire bookshop. Of course, being exacting with his records, he knew every item and its provenance personally; but the shop was coming up on a centennial of existence and he felt he should mark the occasion. He frequently considered what the day of celebration itself could look like, but would return to burying his nose in his books before he could chase that line of thought to its depressing and lonely conclusion. Though many of his manuscripts were older than the shop, he was pleased with his successes in maintaining both the bookshop cover and most of the collection for an entire century. It was beginning to feel like less of a disguise, even if he was forced to periodically off his identities by crafting a somewhat suspect chain of family ownership.

He was still as startled as day one, however, when he came out from between his shelves to discover not two, but four Archangels standing in the shop entryway. 

"Aziraphale!" Gabriel outstretched a welcoming hand toward him and led the small group inwards. "Still playing shopkeeper, are we?" Aziraphale nodded dumbly, removing his glasses and setting them aside with the pencil and notebook where he had been noting inventory.

"Gabriel... Uriel, Michael, Sandalphon... This is quite a surprise." He took their overcoats and hats over to his coat rack, then motioned to a collection of empty chairs surrounding a sooty coal stove. "To what do I owe the honor?" Sandalphon eyed the stove suspiciously. "If I'd had known you were coming I would have tidied the shop more." Aziraphale said to him apologetically. 

"If you'd had known we were coming I suspect there would not be a 'closed' sign on the door," scoffed Michael.

"Oh no, that's there more often than not. Does a good job keeping them out—" He realized this might read as a dereliction of duty. "...Of my hair," he finished weakly. _And ethereal managers wouldn't be stopped by a piece of paper nor its implied propriety,_ he thought.

Sandalphon smiled knowingly. "More time to devote to your miracles."

"So... what warrants such an auspicious group of guests?" Aziraphale continued once they were all seated.

Uriel removed a small notebook from her reticule. "We've been receiving some troubling reports," she began, holding her notes out for Aziraphale to read and pointing. "Distressing accounts from many of the souls who have come to us. It appears as though the last few years—" 

"Souls have been coming up and talking about reconnecting," Gabriel leaned in, resting his elbows on his knees but still managing to wave his hands around. "Going back to visit Earth as a ghost, or possessing some occult human or another. Lots of chatter about unfinished projects." Aziraphale nodded, scanning Uriel's precise notes.

"These are... incidents?" He asked, indicating toward the list. Uriel welcomed the opportunity to continue.

"All accounts recorded from our souls," she said. "We've gone back and found reports tracing back at least a few decades. Maybe more. Secondhand, I suppose, but all witness accounts from souls who can testify having heard the spirits of the deceased and the seen the unholy on the Earthly plane." 

"Secondhand?" Aziraphale puzzled.

"Not the exits and returns of any souls themselves, you see," Michael interjected. "But reports of people who interacted with spirits in their own lifetimes."

"We couldn't find anything like that in your reports," Gabriel said. "So with such a pressing concern I thought we'd come down and get your expertise in person." 

"So to speak," said Sandalphon, gesturing towards their modern wardrobe. Each wore a wool traveling suit in their favored colors, with Michael and Uriel in long skirts. Gabriel was festooned in a neat purple and gray pinstripe. Finely polished button boots shone beneath their matching wool spats. They each had sported a matching derby, perfectly seated to flatter their faces, except again Gabriel, who had insisted on a Homburg. 

"We've been able to corroborate some of these events with demonic or occult readings in our records," Uriel continued. "But we were hoping you could enlighten us with more specifics. Get this investigation started on the right foot." Aziraphale nodded, paging through the exhaustive list. 

"Conversing with spirits... visions of the previously deceased... levitating instruments? And ghost music?" he asked as he thumbed through the notebook.

"Those are just a few. A worrisome variety."

"Well," Aziraphale chewed his lip thoughtfully. "On the _good_ side, I don't think this is something that warrants a crack team of archangels removed from their regular duties."

"This is a very serious security breach," Michael said calmly, her eyes flashing. "We have no trace of souls escaping Heaven or reentering. Whatever this subterfuge is, it's very dangerous."

"Er— let's— not be hasty." Aziraphale continued. "You're looking for insight to the terrestrial perspective. It seems the answer may be quite mundane, in full." Michael did not move except to raise her eyebrow skeptically.

"Yes! I knew we could count on you to understand this," Gabriel said, clasping Aziraphale's forearm. "Go on."

"It's, erm... spectacle," Aziraphale considered exactly how to spell it out in a way that wouldn't upset the elite force of angels surrounding him. "Humans like to call it magic, but don't be alarmed. It's entirely a fiction for entertainment purposes. Although some of them use it to gamble and swindle, but. It's..." He waved his hand around, as if he would find the right word floating in front of him to pluck out. " _Artifice_."

Gabriel nodded along, eyes glittering intensely with his laser-like focus. Uriel and Michael looked doubtful. Sandalphon was still glaring distractedly at the layer of soot on the stove. Gabriel leaned back aggressively and pointed a finger at Aziraphale.

" _That's_ the acumen of almost six millennia on the ground." He looked to the rest of his cohort to see whether this had satisfied them.

"So all of these accounts are... just stories?" Uriel was perplexed, clearly trying to comprehend the implications.

"I'm sure these people believed them to be real, but I'm afraid they're most likely all a fabrication." Aziraphale said.

"But they think it's real," Uriel continued. "And they're hoping they can communicate from the afterlife. They were lied to?" Gabriel frowned at this. 

"You have to remember, humans must come to understand the divine of their own accord. And their lives are so short. There are inevitably knowledge gaps."

"So the lying," Gabriel cut in. "What's the deal there? Trying to scam more souls out of Heaven by convincing them they can come and go?"

"No, that's," Aziraphale coughed, choosing his words carefully. "That's part of it. It's not lies, per se."

"How is a lie not a lie?" Sandalphon drawled. "Seems pretty straightforward to me." He gave a disinterested shrug.

"Oh, that's the lovely bit," Aziraphale said. "Ingenious lot. They tell each other all these stories, and they come up with wonderful new ways of telling them, and it, sometimes—it lights them up from the inside." Aziraphale was practically glowing himself by this point. 

"Divine inspiration?" Michael replied coolly. 

"Oh no, I think it's entirely them, I haven't miracled any of it. But it does bring out a great deal of joy." Michael looked askance at the endless shelves and folded her hands together. 

"I was suggesting moreso _demonic_ involvement." 

"Ah," Aziraphale checked himself. "I see." His mouth pulled into a stern line as he considered how well his explanation appeared to be proceeding. He started suddenly from his chair, excusing himself from the ring of angels. "Oh! I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner. If you'll excuse me just one moment." He emerged from his back room a minute later, cradling a delicate book between his hands.

"How is that _thing_ supposed to help our predicament?" Sandalphon asked drily.

"This is a book printed in 1656. A Mr. Thomas Ady's _A Candle in the Dark_. He discusses magic as mere trickery. Ah, here," he pointed to where he was reading. " _'These are done meerly by slight of hand... and many are daily invented, which are all done by common reason, without the least compact with the Devil.'_ So you see, they've worried about it themselves, and already have gone to the trouble of disproving it as well."

"They waste an awful lot of time complicating things, don't they," said Gabriel.

"So they like to believe in fake magic just for fun?" Uriel was now taking her own turn through her notes, clearly mystified by Aziraphale's logical interpretation. He nodded. "But it _is_ real. We do miracles."

"And we do so entirely surreptitiously," Gabriel chided. Aziraphale fidgeted, rocking slightly like the stem of a metronome. 

"For the most part. Humans do have a great ability to rationalize things away."

Uriel clasped her head. "They spin their own reality and go off being skeptic of real miracles... Why go to all the trouble? It's not them being led to a false faith?"

"Perhaps if we attended a performance it might be more apparent?" Aziraphale suggested.

"Is that a good idea?" Michael asked. "This is a particularly sensitive issue. I would hate for us all to be put in a predicament. To be caught unprepared."

"Oh, I'm quite sure it will be alright," Aziraphale said, smiling.

"Don't worry so much, Michael," Gabriel turned to reassure her. "If anything, we have _the_ Guardian of the Eastern Gate and four of Her topmost Archangels here to handle it."

"Maybe we'll get to do some smiting," said Sandalphon, looking interested in the conversation for the first time that evening.

"There's really no need..." Aziraphale said, resigned that the team of angels had already stood to gather their things.

"A site walk is exactly what this team could use," Gabriel replied brightly.

* * *

Aziraphale led the four through the city to an exhibition hall. Posters plastered the exterior wall, exclaiming:

PYTHO THE ORACLE.  
CONVENE WITH THE SPIRITS.  
MOTIVE FORCE BY INVISIBLE PHANTOMS!  
VISIONS OF THE FUTURE!  
RELEASE FROM HER SARCOPHAGUS!

"This will do," Aziraphale said, motioning to the poster. "This woman performs as the Oracle of Delphi. Of course, the real Pythia were speaking for Apollo—"

" _He_ could have been a demon," Sandalphon cut him off excitedly.

"I, er, suppose so." Aziraphale replied, dismissing the interruption. "But this is just an actress. If you see here," he pointed to the ghostly floating hands flying a cup around the frame of the poster. "And here," he pointed to where the magician was posed emerging from a huge stone box, "her act looks to be based on the Davenport brothers' spirit cabinet. It's been a few decades since they were outed as frauds, but it's all the same tricks underneath anyway."

"How does it work?" Michael asked, searching the poster for answers.

"So glad you asked," Aziraphale chirped, slipping into full-fledged double-barreled lecture mode. "For their spirit cabinet they would be tied into a large wardrobe so that their hands and legs were secured with ropes. Then they would pretend to summon spirits to animate the musical instruments in the cabinet and engage with the audience. Of course, they were simply slipping in and out of the ropes cleverly and affecting the props themselves. But they were very successful."

Uriel was still intent on discerning the human interest. "If it's known to be fraudulent... But aren't people put off by that?" 

"It isn't about the verities at all. The only thing that matters is the trick they use it for."

"This is patently ridiculous," Uriel replied hopelessly. 

"Yes, that's theater!" Aziraphale beamed. "Let's go inside."

He procured five tickets and ushered them into a smaller side room across from the main hall. The stone sarcophagus from the poster was arranged at one end of the room, resting atop two railroad ties to elevate it from the floor. Various stone pillars were ordered around it, each draped in silks and bearing some of the props displayed on the poster. The five angels took a row of chairs which had been placed as part of the makeshift audience seating on the other side of the room.

Eventually the chairs were all filled and the show began. The magician Pytho entered wearing an approximation of a chiton and capelet, replete with gold costume jewelry. She moved from pillar to pillar, performing small feats like growing a small lemon tree, manifesting doves, and retrieving audience members' handkerchiefs from within chicken eggs. The archangels all watched intently, but entirely too calmly for Aziraphale's liking. 

"Now, distinguished guests," she continued, "these trifles of entertainment will be set aside as we commune with the spirits. These proceedings can be dangerous, so please excuse yourselves if you are overcome." Michael and Sandalphon sat forward on their chairs. 

Pytho's assistants brought a large brass brazier in to the foot of the stage, which curled the air with incense. She took several deep breaths, lolling her head back and allowing the tension in the room to grow. 

" _Mistress of divination, great lady of the arcane_ ," she called out in a rasping, nasal voice. " _We grant thee thy vision!_ " With the help of her assistants, the magician then solicited questions from the audience. _These are just about as ginned up as the originals,_ Aziraphale thought. _Although they never went in for such a ridiculous sound_. Sandalphon's brow was deeply furrowed, squinting doubtfully at the scene. 

Pytho shook off the feigned trance. "Now, spirits," she continued, "I will summon you to the mortal plane!" Aziraphale watched Michael relax, but noted she still held her folded fan tightly. 

The assistants removed the heavy stone lid from the sarcophagus, and Pytho climbed inside. While she stood, they wrapped her head to toe with a heavy rope, binding her hands especially tight. 

"Once I am sealed inside, these mysterious phantoms will practice their motive energies upon the items laid out before you. When they have proven themselves they will free me from my prison and return to their realm of shadows!" With this, she laid back into the sarcophagus and the lid was pulled over her. The gas lights in the room lowered to nothing, leaving only the brazier throwing a dim glow from the coals onto the columns from the earlier acts. 

One by one, each item began to animate. An egg rolled around the perimeter of its nest. A chalice floated into the air, only settling back into place once it had been refilled with wine. The row of angels watched quietly in the dark, perfectly unmoving. Aziraphale watched them, heart thumping in his chest, equally strained between his drama and the one in front of them. 

At last, each novelty had returned to stillness. The brazier belched a plume of fire, revealing Pytho seated on the lid of the closed sarcophagus, ropes at her side. The audience stood as the lights went up, and raised their cheers accordingly. 

The angels all remained seated in the back row, Michael turning to Aziraphale. 

"Nothing happened."

"As I said! It's all... gadgets and things. Nothing occult at all." He sounded somewhat exasperated, and a little put out. 

Uriel nodded toward the excited crowd. "This was quite a production. I'm beginning to understand. It's all nonsense, but it does make quite a stir." Aziraphale smiled at this. "All the fraud and... bickering. I guess that's the price we must pay for it to be human ingenuity rather than the true forces of Evil." He sighed and helped usher them all out as the crowd thinned. 

"I think we can close the book on this one, team," Gabriel said as they exited the performance hall. "These supposed _disturbances_ "—he mimed air quotes— "less of a disturbance in the veil and more just _disturbed_ , am I right?" He was nodding to the rest of the team in anticipation of their assessment. "Humans. Always got a little too much Hell in 'em. But then we'd be out of a job, wouldn't we?" He thumped Aziraphale on the back. "I should let you get back to it. We're clearly taking up your valuable soul-saving time!" Aziraphale winced slightly.

"Of course, Gabriel. If this is enough to write up your reports. I'm always available to clarify anything further," he offered. Uriel nodded.

"You've been most accommodating, Aziraphale," she said. "Thank you for sharing your considerable knowledge of the human experience. I still can't comprehend why they're more interested in false miracles than real ones, but perhaps that's Sacred Mystery for you. Just make sure it doesn't become a problem."

"Nothing a team of archangels and their all-star agent can't handle," Gabriel said genially. "Maybe time to take me up that promotion, eh, Aziraphale? You've certainly earned it."

Aziraphale blinked to gather himself, and before he could protest, realized he was now standing in empty hallway, alone. _Well, that went rather well, I suppose_ , he thought to himself as he wandered through the halls towards the front doors. _Maybe I should pick up something celebratory on the way home. I could certainly go for a drink after a management review._

He was lost in the thought of whether this feat warranted champagne when he realized there was a single figure standing in the lobby, looking at the grand posters.

"Ah, um, Michael?" he walked up next to her. "I thought you had left with Gabriel and the rest." Michael looked at him with an unreadable emotion.

"Unlike Gabriel, I am not satisfied with showmanship." She returned to the posters with a steely glare. "Humans are curious, I'll grant that. But one doesn't get to be a protector of Heaven without pursuing every potential threat until it's secured." Aziraphale was very tired of this ordeal and couldn't muster the energy to begin to sort out her meaning. To his luck, a voice rang out from across the lobby.

"Professor Elzevier!" Aziraphale turned to see a young man coming out from the ticketing offices. "Back for another show?"

"Can't keep me away, I'm afraid," he said, turning to smile at the man.

"I'll be back shortly, I have to finish locking up. Just let yourself out the front."

"Of course, George," Aziraphale replied and waved as the man walked off, jangling his keys.

"You're not A. Z. Fell anymore?" Michael murmured as the man left their sight.

"He would have opened the shop almost a century ago," Aziraphale said. "As a human he would have quite worn out his welcome." Michael gave no indication that she understood what he was hinting at, and Aziraphale mused that it was humorously easier to get rid of a demon than an archangel. Or perhaps Heaven was too buttoned-up to appreciate insinuations.

"And you're a frequent visitor here?" She turned back to face him.

"Yes, I have to admit. I'm rather enamored with the whole thing. I even tried my hand at it." He smiled wistfully. Michael looked skeptical.

"You tried...?"

"I took some sleight of hand lessons a few decades ago," he continued. "But I'm afraid I don't quite have what it takes. So I come here to watch them. I've been following many of their careers for some time."

"So this," Michael turned back again to the poster, scratching mindlessly at her chin. "This man performs here?" Aziraphale looked up at the poster.

"It seems he did last month," he said, noting the date. "But he's touring. So he'd be off somewhere else by now."

"Then we'll have to find him." Michael clasped her fan and stood upright, satisfied with whatever she had been examining.

"Beg pardon?" This was the opposite of spending a quiet evening free of continued archangel interference. Aziraphale could feel his plans disappearing into the night.

Michael pointed to the berry-red imp hidden at the heel of the man in the lithograph. "Hell is too big a risk to write it off as just a human fiction. I think it best we investigate."

Aziraphale sighed heavily. At least it would be a distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested in the history side or other references, I made some Chapter 1 annotations [here](https://verucapsalter.tumblr.com/post/189964863926/because-i-am-obsessed-with-behind-the-scenes).


	2. A Disappearance.

**NEW YORK CITY.**

The next day, Aziraphale found himself whisked to America by way of miracle. The pursuit of their touring magician had led them to America's largest city, and Aziraphale had spent the night packing a moth-eaten carpetbag and trying to convince Michael that appearing in the middle of a crowded city in the late hours of the night would be extremely suspicious. The abrupt shift from daylight to early hours threw him for a loop nonetheless, and he felt momentarily dizzy as they appeared in a dark alley. The archangelic lightning of Michael's miracle left his skin sizzling with static, head spinning.

Michael was standing ramrod-straight above him. "Are you alright? You should get your corporation checked."

Aziraphale nodded, willing away the feelings of illness. "Yes— I— too much localization of late, I think. It will pass." He brought himself upright and picked up their things.

"Yes, well. You should take better care of that corporation that's been issued to you. What if there were an emergency? Not very good being a Principality if you're just going to get taken down by a little nausea." 

Aziraphale shuffled his feet. "Of course. You're right. Once we sort this out, I'll..." His mind drew a blank, and he swallowed down his chagrin. "Well, let's get a move on. There should be a hotel around the corner where I've miracled our arrangements. Tally-ho!"

Despite Michael's presence and his short bout of vertigo, Aziraphale was excited. Michael's insistence on researching spiritualists and magicians meant he could indulge, Heaven-approved, in one of his newfound pursuits. The mere thought made him a little giddy. He supposed that added to the dizziness and resolved to behave professionally. 

He escorted Michael into the hotel and they took their luggage to their rooms. Michael had insisted that they should immediately begin their investigation, so they reconvened in the lobby.

"It seems silly to have to pay for two rooms for beings who don't sleep," said Michael, looking around at the decorated interior.

"It's not like money is a concern," replied Aziraphale. "Just think of it as the glamours of undercover work."

"I suppose. I don't know how you manage it. I have to say I'm much more at home in a remote role."

Aziraphale couldn't help but feel the implied _And you should, too_. Best get to work, then. "Should we lay out your plan over breakfast? I'm sure we can find some intriguing American fare. And I always like to formulate a strategy rather than go rushing in off the cuff."

Michael hummed. "I had hoped to get an early start."

"Yes, well it is _quite_ early still," Aziraphale said. "I doubt the theater would be open for several hours yet. Unless you had something else in mind?"

"No... You're right. Let's coordinate our approach." Michael followed Aziraphale into the hotel's dining room, where he was pleased to discover they were serving beef and potato hash with fried toast. He quickly befriended the staff and chatted with them while they were served, as Michael observed quietly. She took a few dainty bites before clearing the plate aside and extracting a notebook from her vest pocket.

"I had some time to think last night," she started, turning to the page where she had pencilled a list of questions. "It is intriguing what humans are doing for their own entertainment. But there's too much correlation between some of the reports and Hell's. There is something else going on."

Aziraphale nearly choked. "We have records from Hell?"

Michael nodded, smiling slightly. "Such sloppy work, demons. We were able to intercept some of their reports in transit[1]. It's minimal, but there are some alignments between the two sets of cases." Aziraphale thought back to all the "smitings" and "thwartings" he had filed over the years which were more accurately wiling away the hours over a drink in one tavern or another, losing at chess or some local game. _Not likely to be especially helpful_ , he thought. Neither angels nor demons were especially predisposed to paperwork, except inasmuch as it was a responsibility. _Except Gabriel_ , Aziraphale thought ungraciously. _He probably enjoys it._

He realized Michael had asked him a question. "Pardon?"

"I asked if you had any thoughts on how we should approach this magician," she repeated. "Any effective strategies for countering their involvement with demons. In your immeasurable experience."

"If he really is involved with demonic conjuring, he's probably not possessed. They generally don't like that," he explained, enumerating the possibilities. "In which case it's likely he has some artifact he can use in his performances, or some partnership with a demon who performs the acts themselves. I'm not sure a demon could hand over any of their powers specifically, even if they wanted to. And demons rarely seem to stick around unless there's a task at hand."

Michael made some notations as he went on.

"If he is possessed, we'll have to be very careful. He can't suspect anything if we need to exorcise him. If it's just some artifact we can probably destroy it or bless it, depending. Perhaps get into his workshop and have a look around. We could sneak in during a performance."

"We could start there, now. Instead of waiting for his performance later," she rolled her pencil in her fingers, staring deep into her notes.

"Probably not the best idea," Aziraphale answered. "Magicians are notoriously secretive. I doubt very much we could get into his workshop without great difficulty. We could end up causing a scene, give him or any spirits a warning if we're not careful. I think we should play this very cautiously."

Michael _hmmphed_ in agreement. "You said you were schooled in some of their magic, yes?" She moved from rolling the pencil to tapping it, chin leaning on her other hand. Her eyes slid over to meet Aziraphale's.

"Yes, but— I'm not very good." He could feel his face redden some. It was never pleasant to think about how poorly his skills were received. 

"'Humility is a virtue, Aziraphale." Michael sat back in her chair, seeming to compose her thoughts through the methodical orchestration of her form. "And you're knowledgeable. You have books."

"Y...es...?" Aziraphale was not following.

"You're a bookseller. Perhaps the magician would let us into his inner sanctum if you were to offer some rare magic publications for purchase."

"Oh!" Aziraphale smiled in surprise. _A collector of magic works._ He could stay in magician circles, despite his lack of skill. At least for a few years. "That just might work." He could part with a few books if it meant indulging another hobby. And as a specialist collector... it would be a tight social circle. His books might come back to him eventually.

"In the interest of being cautious, I should do some due diligence on the demonic activity," Michael continued. "See if we can confirm any of those reports with human involvement."

"What do you think they're doing?" Aziraphale asked. "There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the ones you spoke of."

"Demons are awfully stupid. It's possible they're slogging away one soul at a time, but this is all far too... colorful. Even with the human factor it speaks to something bigger."

"It does?" Aziraphale doubted this, but was determined to see Michael through her search. He suspected her wariness led her to seeing monsters in her soup, but he couldn't fault her for an imagination. He would just have to show her proof, first-hand, to convince her with any certainty.

"Maybe they're riling up souls to keep Heaven distracted. If we're occupied out on an investigation or, God forbid, chasing after loose souls, well. As you said, it called four archangels from their posts. That certainly leaves a weaker defense behind." Michael continued to work through her suspicions. "So, I'll see if I can't determine which of these are notions are worth investigating, and then we'll meet up at the theater later. You can work on how you're going to ingratiate yourself with the magician."

Aziraphale nodded and thanked the staff for their breakfast, seeing Michael off in the lobby while he went up to his room and considered which books he could convincingly and guiltlessly part with. By the time he realized he was due to meet Michael, he had only made it as far as arraying them on the bed, and had passed the hours without so much as a single decision. No matter, he felt; the evening called for reconnaissance only.

* * *

Michael stood across the street at the theater, rigidly watching the people come and go. Every so often she would glance at the posters on its exterior, the same she had seen in London.

_The Amazing Theodolphus._

She had visited St. Patrick's cathedral in hopes of picking up intel, but no prayers regarding demons had been forthcoming. Only the usual parade of requests for peace had come anywhere near her search for unsettled souls. Whichever force of evil was behind this, they were covering their tracks thoroughly.

Aziraphale had arrived and waved to her from beneath the marquee, smiling cheerily. She steeled herself for the possibility of a demonic encounter, then crossed over to the entrance. 

"We have tickets waiting at Will Call, I'll get them if you like," Aziraphale said, somewhat excitedly. "If you're ready to go inside."

"Do try not to get distracted," she said idly. 

She thanked him as he opened the door for her, and they proceeded inside. An usher took their tickets and showed them to two green velvet seats in the back of the upper balcony. Michael surveyed the theater, taking in the stage and the audience below. The audience chittered as they waited, and Aziraphale turned and interrupted her inspection.

"Were you able to find any leads on the occult involvement?" 

"No, it's too well hidden," she replied quietly. "Perhaps they do the work elsewhere, and this is just a honeypot." Aziraphale vaguely wondered if you could trap demons with honey like flies, but decided they probably went more for rotten meat and flayed skin. Altogether, a series of lures which were unlikely to be seen in a magic show, and certainly not for human souls. 

As the houselights went down, they both sat up in anticipation. 

Theodolphus entered the stage, dressed in a set of silk black tails. He introduced himself and began by conjuring a series of large golden coins from thin air, and then levitating them slowly from his palm into a glittering cloud above his head. With a clap of his hands, the coins dropped as if they had suddenly remembered gravity existed, though none fell to the stage. Each of the dozens of coins had vanished completely. Aziraphale and the rest of the audience clapped enthusiastically, completely enraptured.

"A lust for riches will get us nowhere," the magician spoke, his eyes sparkling. "Perhaps a supernatural showing calls for a supernatural guest." Michael sat stock-still, and Aziraphale searched the audience surrounding them for any clandestine involvement.

A large round table was wheeled into the center of the stage, draped in a glittering brocade cloth. Theodolphus gently pulled it aside, revealing a tiny square chest. The wooden box was almost unremarkable, swallowed up in the large finery of the table it sat on.

"In my travels I have encountered foreign wise men, mystics, even encountered a monstrous sphinx," he began, stepping behind the table. "But nothing so dangerous as this"— he gestured to the box—"which I bartered from an ancient trader in the Orient." He stood to the side of the table and grasped the simple leather straps on the box.

"The forces which afflict our lives are universal," the magician continued, lifting the box and parading it along the front of the stage so everyone could get a closer look. "This trader was able to trap and subdue such a force, and his primoridial secrets kept it alive and held despite its sordid state." He paused to look into the eyes of his audience, and returned the box to the table. "Ladies and gentlemen, you will be privy to esoteric truths and the relic is itself a grotesquerie. Should you fear for your safety, remember that I have learned the arcane knowledge required to keep this artifact animated but held fast. But behold— the living head of a demon!" With a simplistic flourish, he released the leather straps, and the box front dropped forward. Inside, was, indeed, a head. It blinked sleepily and looked up at the magician.

"Are you getting anything?" Michael whispered. 

Aziraphale leaned over the armrest. "No, I don't sense any Hellishness. Aside from that caked-on makeup, I suppose. Are you sensing something?"

Michael shook her head, casting a sidelong glance in his direction. "No."

"I think it's just a human," he sighed, sinking back into his seat. Michael seemed to have little appreciation for any earthly insights; perhaps he could distract himself with figuring out the trick of it. He rested his chin in one hand, tucking the elbow into his chest and resting on his other arm. With the unoccupied hand he absentmindedly began to worry his thumb along the edge of his coat. 

The magician had thus far demonstrated the range of movements available to the bodyless wonder, and its inability to escape its simplistic prison. "Now you must demonstrate your psychical wisdom, Vinegar Tom—," and the head began to identify items the magician held out of its sight, and calling out to the audience regarding objects on their person. 

"'Vinegar Tom', really," Aziraphale mumbled into his hand. _No demon would be caught with such a prosaic name_ , he thought. _Even the most uninspired corners of Hell have a flair for tortuous nomenclature._

Michael looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. 

"No, it's nothing," he huffed. "It's a reference to a witch hunt in the 1600s. Just humans." Michael pinched her lips, unconvinced. "...Unless you know any Fallen going by Vinegar Tom?" She scoffed at that, and for a moment Aziraphale thought he had been too hasty in judging her thoughts about human entertainments.

But then— a twinge. Right in the back of his skull, he felt the peculiar press of a miracle. He sat up abruptly and turned to meet Michael's eyes. She shook her head shortly at him, and he did so in return. _Not me_. Her eyes widened, and both angels scanned the theater for a source. The audience was still held in rapt attention, nothing unusual there. As he searched from face to face, Aziraphale realized the magician's lyrical style had been interrupted.

"I—er—Vinegar—," he started. The head let out a gigantic belch. A low murmur spread across the audience. "A creature of base instinct," Theodolphus began again. "Perhaps it should _attend_ to its _commands._ " He looked askance at the head, exaggerating his last direction with a forceful tone. The demon head opened its mouth, and released another comically loud burp. The audience gasped and the murmurs became more distinct. 

The magician replaced the front of the wood box and hurriedly threw the cloth back over top. "Ladies and gentlemen, I— I apologize for this despicable behavior." He seemed flustered and unable to regain his stage composure. "We'll have a brief musical interlude and I will return with more appropriate wonders." He strode off the stage aggressively as a woman entered with her harp.

Aziraphale turned back to Michael. 

"I think something's going on backstage. I should investigate." 

Michael nodded briefly. "I'll stay here in case it's in the audience. Meet me in the hall after the show." Aziraphale quietly slipped out of his row as the harpist began to play. He exited down the staircase and ducked into the side hall. At the far end was a door to the backstage. 

The angel quietly opened the door and found himself in a dark stairwell. One flight led down to the stage pit, and another up to the catwalks. Hoping to get a better vantage, he hurried up the stairs and stepped into the upper wings. Through the flies and suspended ropes, he could see Theodolphus quietly berating a costumed assistant on the stage below. 

Behind the backdrop he could discern piles of props and crates, and the troublesome box and table. No one was paying it any mind, and the stage crew had moved on to arranging the next equipment to be brought onstage. Aziraphale watched as the harpist rolled off into the wings, and the grand velvet curtain opened on Theodolphus again. 

"As we continue our journey this evening, you may find yourselves unsatisfied with the small domestic objects which have occupied my demonstrations thus far. I think it is time I conjure something much more marvelous for you." He waved his hand, and a large freestanding mirror was brought onto the stage. The assistants spun the mirror in place as the magician gestured to it. "From this mirror I will produce—" A crack shattered across the mirror's surface. Aziraphale could see the magician blanche. 

Having felt another twinge of miracle, Aziraphale surveyed the stage beneath him. Theodolphus, center stage. Assistants, stage managers and crew, the harpist, all huddled next to their accessories offstage, whispering fiercely. He heard the voices of the audience start to rise, and the magician stammered again. But there, almost invisible against the black leg curtain—

 _It can't be._

He slipped, and the careless noise of his shoes on the catwalk as he caught himself drew the attention of the figure below. 

The smirk dropped from Crowley's face, hand frozen mid-snap. 

Aziraphale gripped the catwalk rail, an iron buttress against the torrent of emotions currently racing through him. He gritted his teeth unknowingly and considered whether he could discorporate from shock. He watched, himself unmoving, as the demon brushed off a wave of some tense emotion, the reaction arriving on his face as a tepid smile.

Crowley turned the snap into the shortest of waves.

Aziraphale realized he had been holding his breath in attempt to keep himself collected, and let out a shaky breath as he raised his own hand in reply. The breathing seemed to revive him like a steam engine, his corporation slowly pulling the enormous leaden weight of his thoughts back up to speed. One pressed to the forefront. _Michael._

He looked down at the stage below, seeing the magician reengaged in his performance. The lights and sounds seemed to bloom around him, and the magician suddenly seemed very far away. Aziraphale looked back to Crowley and started to mime a series of gestures. Halo. Angel wings. Spear— he made a downward stab, trying to act out any number of classical marbles that might be recognizeable. He pointed toward the audience, whom he hoped were too distracted to be looking into the wings. 

Crowley raised his eyebrows and shook his head minutely, his raised hand becoming a half shrug. 

Aziraphale inhaled tensely, clenching and unclenching his fists. There was no time to be playing games. He pointed behind the backdrop, then himself, then down, and Crowley nodded. Aziraphale spun quietly on his heel and hurried down the stairs. From the stairwell he slipped through another door to the greenroom, and then into the dark backstage, careful to keep his distance from the performers. He spotted Crowley immediately pacing towards him, and met him halfway amongst the piles of magic props. 

_"Michael's here."_ He hissed the words, still fighting to control his body as it shook with nerves. Crowley leaned languidly against a tall cabinet. 

"On Earth? Angel, if it was time for the second coming of Christ, then—" Aziraphale wrenched his lapel, pulling him into a whisper.

"No, you idiot. Out there. _In the audience_." He watched as Crowley nearly skittered back, eyes wide behind his glasses. "She—"

A roar came up from the far side of the curtain. _The act must be finished_ , he thought. 

"You have to get out of here. She's looking for demons." Aziraphale moved his vise-like grip to Crowley's upper arm, looking about for the door. "Where's the loading dock." He could barely choke out the words, his eyes skittering around for the alley escape. Crowley stepped into his path, staring him down.

"You can't just show up and interrupt my projects," he began. Aziraphale strangled a manic laugh. As if that weren't the very basis for their respective assignments. It would almost be funny, if, but— _no time, no time_ — he could feel his heart beating in his ears. 

"Michael's going to be here any minute, looking for me. And she absolutely can't find _you_." The venom in his own words surprised him. He stepped back and tried to slow his breathing. He held his arms at his sides, fists again clenching and releasing. 

"Okay." Crowley held up his hands in a supplicating gesture. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card, offering it to Aziraphale. "Meet me at this address, tomorrow, if you can. That's my base of operations." Aziraphale took the card and stared at it, hands shaking. He swallowed numbly and folded it into his vest pocket. 

"Aziraphale?" A voice called from the hall. "Are you back here?" He turned towards the greenroom and then back towards the demon.

"Crowley, you _must_ —" A chest next to them shuddered and collapsed, but there was no sign of Crowley. Aziraphale exhaled forcefully, willing back every emotion, a dam against the tide. He tilted his head up in attempt to trap the tears about to overwhelm him. Not a miracled exit. _Good. Tactful._ He stared into the rigging, focusing on calculating his next move. The mission was paramount, and he needed to keep his train of thought occupied.

Michael stepped up next to him. "What are you looking at?" She looked up, then back down at Aziraphale. 

"Oh, ah—" He swallowed, attempting to school his voice into normalcy. "I thought I saw someone in the flies."

"That demon head? Did it... recorporate?"

He shook his head. "No, it," he spun about distractedly, reorienting himself with the table prop, gesturing to it. "That's just an actor."

"I see." Michael gently closed her eyes in an attempt to sense any trace evil. After a few seconds without results, she opened them again. "There's too much lingering audience Anger here at the moment. Whatever was setting off miracles isn't going to be traceable now. Did you get a look at it? The demon?"

"I— No," he stammered. "Are we sure it was a demon?"

"There's definitely some celestial energy in the atmosphere, but without any other evidence, there's no telling whether it was ethereal or infernal. Why, did you see something else?"

"Certainly not, no. Of course. Um. I'm just... still trying to get a read on the human involvement." He laughed nervously. 

"Ah. Yes. That would be an important factor to remember, you are quite keen on it." She pursed her lips for a moment, her measured stare refusing to break contact with his. "Let's head back to our lodgings and we can come up with another plan for tomorrow." Aziraphale nodded curtly, swallowing down his remaining nerves, and followed Michael out into the city.

* * *

**HELL.**

"Lord, you asked for me?" Beelzebub slouched into the open door of Satan's office. The wide cement expanse was parked at the edge of the lowest lake of hellfire, and despite the low ceiling and floors of dank office bunkers stacked above it, not a single drop of sludge or pollution deigned to intrude on the throne room. No furniture disgraced the chamber aside from a single oversized monstrosity of gold-chromed tubing slung with skin, a chair which was only about a half century away from being deemed modernism. For the time being, it was merely unrelentingly uncomfortable. Seated forward on the thing was the Lord of Hell himself, who sat forward as Beelzebub approached.

"Yes, we need your thoughts on something." He waved a hand towards the Infernal Times held aloft by a small demon at the foot of his throne. Beelzebub stepped forward and squinted at the indicated blurb.

"Demon Summonings Up 3000%, your Lordship?"

"Indeed. What have your reports told you about this?" He leaned back casually, bridging the tips of his fingers together in front of his face. Good, simply curious, she thought.

"The humans' increase in suppozzed 'spiritualism' izzz driving their interest in the occult, sir, and many of late have been szzzzoliciting deals for arcane powerzzz," she explained. "It'zzz getting quite popular up there."

Satan nodded thoughtfully. "How effective is this approach?" Beelzebub understood the questions he was not asking her. What is the accounting of souls? What kind of deals are we sealing? Is this calling too many demons from their duties? How much corollary increase has there been in exorcisms?

"The dealzzz we have secured are without reproach, Lord, and the exchange on our end izzz trivial." She considered momentarily the scope of the operation as she continued, "Although perhaps some angentzzz are rather careless when they are pulled topside."

" _Careless?_ " Satan never suffered fools gladly. It was more the fools who suffered.

"Overzzzealous, perhapzzz. Ambition to upsell a negotiation to a posszzzession." 

"So _charitable_ , Prince." Beelzebub's cloud of flies shivered a murmurration. "Do keep us apprised."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1. They had been left in a garbage heap for a dead drop, and summarily picked up by the local waste collectors. Nobody had missed them, especially not the worms meant to deliver them. An angel who happened to be passing by the dump noticed their aura and had found the idea of celestial trash to be too humorous to ignore.↩
> 
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> Other trivia annotations for Chapter 2 available [here](https://verucapsalter.tumblr.com/post/190160871641/chapter-2-the-amazing-theodolphus-a-lot).


	3. A Transformation.

**NEW YORK CITY.**

Michael again arranged to meet Aziraphale in the lobby the following morning. She called over to him as he came down the staircase.

"Aziraphale, good morning." She looked down at the small valise in his hands. "Are those the books?"

"Good morning, Michael!" he replied cheerfully. While the rest of New York slept, Aziraphale had arranged his book collection and prepared himself to enact the next stage of her investigation; he worked best by keeping his mind preoccupied. With all his books of magic and legerdemain at hand, he had decided to focus himself by fleshing out the new tradesman aspect of his persona. No longer was he just a bookseller or a hobbyist magician, but a highly specialized researcher and dealer in illusion development. It was comforting to rediscover the breadth of understanding he had accumulated over the centuries, and if it helped Michael complete her mission faster, all the better. He resolved to be the consummate professional and enjoy it all the while. The latter would be the real challenge.

He held up the valise. "Yes, these are all the magic texts I brought. I think it will be an appealing introduction." Michael nodded resolutely.

"Excellent, let's be off. The concierge was so kind as to tell me where we could find Mr. Theodolphus." As they exited Aziraphale was briefly disappointed to skip out on another American breakfast, but decided the faster he could wrap up Michael's business today, the sooner he could try to find Crowley.

They walked companionably but somewhat quietly through the streets, listening to the city bustle around them. Carriages, street merchants, and the regular hoi polloi were already raucous at this early hour. Aziraphale found it peaceful to discover the rhythm of another city and to get a reprieve from Michael's relentless stream of questioning.

Eventually they reached a warehouse district and Michael led them up a short flight of stairs to a weatherbeaten door. She turned a key mounted into the wall and they heard a distant bell ring inside. After some shuffling noises, a man appeared at the door. He had on a simple wool suit and cap, and a pencil tucked behind one ear.

"Hermes Shipping and Imports, may I help you?" he asked, standing in the open doorway.

"We're looking for the offices of Mr. Theodolphus," Michael said, her smile as inscrutable as ever.

"Do you have business with him?" the man asked. He leaned against the door frame and closed the door slightly behind himself.

"I'm a rare book trader," said Aziraphale, lifting up the valise. "I consult for magicians and specialized collections. We thought Mr. Theodolphus might be interested, if he would grant us a moment of his time." Michael nodded approvingly at his introduction.

"Come in, then. I'll ask if he'll see you." The man stepped aside and opened the door to let them in. The office was a small room with wood and glass walls separating it from the industrial space. Several large desks were arranged inside, buried under piles of receipts, posters, and pen sketches. He left the pair standing by the door and disappeared into a back room, which a minute later spit out the magician. He stepped up to them, eyes alight.

"The Amazing Theodolphus, at your service." He extended his hand to Aziraphale to welcome him. The magician was also dressed in wool trousers and a simple shirt, his sleeves rolled back to avoid the grease and ink that had been smudged there. "Please forgive the mess." Aziraphale took his hand warmly.

"Faustus Elzevier." He motioned to Michael. "And this is my— sister—"

"Michael—"

" _Ms._ Michael. Angela Michael," Aziraphale interrupted, raising his eyebrows emphatically and giving Michael a pointed look over the magician's shoulder. She acknowledged this with brief eye contact, but nothing more. Theodolphus took her gloved hand and gave a dashing bow. 

"A pleasure to meet you," he said genially. She raised an eyebrow in mild not-quite-disdain.

"Yes, quite."

The magician turned back to Aziraphale. "So, Mr. Elzevier. I presume that's a stage name?" 

"Was, yes," Aziraphale replied. "I do more of the... books... technical side. These days." He made a fussy motion with his hand, demonstrating nothing in particular. "Consulting."

"Oh, an ingénieur..." Theodolphus nodded, sitting back on top of a desk and folding his arms. "Quite a business these days. There's two or three shops here, just in New York City. What brings you to the States?"

"The book trade, for the most part." Aziraphale patted the valise. "You never know what treasures you'll find on the other side of the world. A bit of an adventure, really."

"And you, Ms. Michael?"

"Keeping him on task," she replied with a delicate smirk. 

"Ah, the brains of the business." Theodolphus gave a shrewd smile. "Well, in that case. Please, the both of you, call me Theo. I'm perfectly intrigued by whatever might be hiding in your little bag of tricks."

Aziraphale laughed lightly and opened the latches on the small case. Inside were a series of books and papers and manuscripts, arranged as if shelved. He carefully lifted one out and laid it on the desk for Theodolphus to see. 

" _Dictionnaire encyclopédique des amusemens des sciences, mathématiques et physiques_ , from 1792. Notable for Robert-Houdin." Theodolphus walked over to the other desk to examine the book.

"I don't speak French, I'm afraid. I don't think that would be much help," he lamented.

"Help?" Aziraphale looked up at the magician, who continued to thumb through the book, and then over to Michael. Perhaps this was their in.

"I have been plagued," Theodolphus sighed. Michael's eyes widened attentively. 

"The demon? In your performance?" She walked slowly around to the end of the table, hands folded in front of her. Theodolphus barked out a laugh.

"Oh! You've seen it?" A wide smile played across his face. "A demon, perhaps. Ha! He is a devil. But no, just a rival act who insists on sabotaging me."

"Yes, we attended last night," said Michael. "Is that what happened? His sabotage?" Theodolphus looked up from the book to meet her eyes.

"Completely abhorrent. He's never interrupted the middle of a performance before. Must have paid off that assistant... He crossed a line." His face was deadly serious. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"Who is this rival?" Aziraphale asked. 

"That fool Banks," Theodolphus spat. "He's a cheap variety hall act. Steals everyone's tricks and if he can't steal their audience, then it's in with the sledgehammers. No respect for the art of it."

Aziraphale carefully placed the book back in his valise. "Surely with such a large theater at your disposal he's not a real risk. If he's reliant on stealing your work, ruining it... you must have the advantage."

"I can't risk it again. The act will become a laughingstock..." The magician sighed, thoughtlessly fiddling with some loose papers on the desk. "And the assistant. I don't understand. I'd have to train a new one, start all over... And I don't even know how he did it!" His eyes blazed. "He must have fired a shot pellet at the mirror... bribed my assistant..."

"I see. Quite an investment." Aziraphale patted him hesitantly on the shoulder. "You must have a collection of illusions you can fall back on."

"I have a few, but —" Theodolphus grunted. "Nothing so large. Every prop is built custom, here, by me. Everything Banks hasn't stolen, at least. Or that I haven't retired from my act and sold off. You don't get to be a world famous conjuror without _ingenuity_."

"No, I suppose not." Aziraphale hummed and chewed at his lip. "Would it be terribly forward of me if I pointed out that you have a paramount illusion scholar at your disposal?"

"Oh... Oh!" The magician smiled in delight. "You have some to sell?"

"Nothing but my own expertise, I'm afraid. Though with these at our disposal," Aziraphale placed his hand gently on the books, "I'm sure we can craft something appropriate."

"Sir, you're a blessing in disguise," Theodolphus said, clapping Aziraphale on the shoulder. Aziraphale swallowed timidly as excitement and expectations merged somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach. "Join me in the back, will you? I'll show you the workshop."

Aziraphale turned to Michael. "I'll leave you two to it," she said, then lowered her voice so only he could hear. "Be thorough back there. See if he's hiding anything. Any _one_. I need to pursue some developments... We can debrief later." He nodded. Dividing their tasks would allow him to check on Crowley and impede whatever mischief he had gotten up to, as long as Michael remained occupied.

"Right this way," Theodolphus said, opening the back office door to show Aziraphale in.

"Enjoy your afternoon, gentlemen." Michael gave them a curt nod and exited through the front door.

Behind the rear office door was the wide open space of the workshop floor. Several workbenches were arranged around the floor, covered in tools and models and parts of mechanisms. Narrow iron columns held up a sawtooth roof which bathed the space in bright, if dusty, light. The man from earlier was huddled over a workbench, marking a plank of wood and working at it with a fine chisel. Aziraphale followed the magician over to him.

"Mr. Elzevier, this is Mr. Groff," he said, as they shook hands. "He's a jack of all trades. Helps with the books, cabinetry... Keeps out prying eyes."

"Nice to meet you, Elzevier." Groff glanced questioningly at the magician.

"Mr. Elzevier here is an ingénieur. He's going to get us back on track. Banks won't even notice our schedule is lacking."

"Ingénieur, you're too kind. Barely of a sort. Mostly a scholar and patron of the arts," said Aziraphale.

"So, not a magician?" Groff's eyebrow inched a little higher.

"The stage and I go very poorly together, regrettably. So, no worries about forging another rival, I'm afraid I'm here to give up my secrets instead." Aziraphale patted the valise.

"We won't interrupt you, Groff." Theodolphus steered Aziraphale to another workbench covered in scratch paper and sat them both at tall stools. Aziraphale placed his valise to the side, unlatching the clasps and opening the lid. He considered the odd contents of the books before him, unsure where to begin.

"What kind of act are you hoping to replace your ruined ones with?" Aziraphale asked.

"I don't know, honestly," the magician sighed. "These are still new enough that nobody had gotten tired of them yet. I hadn't even considered what could replace them." Aziraphale nodded thoughtfully.

"What if you walked me through your whole program as it is currently? I'm sure you have themes or, or a story you try to keep to." 

"Oh, yes. The devil motif has been somewhat of a symbol for me. Not that it holds much personal meaning, but it does draw the crowds in. A whiff of danger and the bizarre... the audience loves it." He riffed through a stack of old sketches with one hand, then pushed them aside. "Though it's very popular for nearly every magician these days."

Aziraphale picked up a few sheets from the top of the stack and studied them. "And what of the props? Those have to complement you specifically, I'm sure." Theodolphus nodded.

"Modern. Small, to drive the sense of impossibility. But big enough to draw the eye. One must strike the exact balance between filling the stage and leaving room for wonder." Aziraphale smiled gently at this. _How marvelous._ He slid the sketches in his hands back over to the magician.

"These old sketches of yours— are they old ideas? Illusions you've tried before?" They seemed to be mostly mechanisms, bits of pulleys and latches and things without context. He recognized that to the untrained eye, or without the larger picture, they were essentially worthless.

"Just novelties, I'm afraid." The magician waved his hand dismissively. "It's more a database of components. Each one waiting for the perfect story to tell. This is the easy part, engineering some contraption. I could spend a year developing a new idea, and eleven of those months would be spent telling and retelling and restaging in an exacting rehearsal. Illusions demand perfection. The wrong ambiance, the wrong turn of your wrist... all of that becomes a wasted effort."

Aziraphale listened and thought back to the contents of his books. "Naturally limitations are frustrating, but... those are the precise areas where people look to meet the impossible. For thousands of years, humans have been pulling the same tricks on each other. We just need to do the same thing. Dress one up a little this way, a little that way," he mimed palming and revealing a coin. "Nothing new under the sun."

"Yes... Remake some dated acts into something fresh." Theodolphus' stare bore into the papers, seemingly looking miles beyond their place on the table.

"Misdirection through antiquity..." Aziraphale turned to his collection and pulled out a worn tome. "Do you think 1635 is old enough?" The magician looked up and his eyes flashed with energy. 

"I think you might be enjoying yourself too much," the man smiled.

"Oh, I should hope so," Aziraphale said."You don't become a collector for the money." He began to carefully turn through the pages. "Let's see, there's beheadings... probably too similar. Making faces appear in water... Hm. How to vanish a glass of beer..."

"Don't need magic for that." The magician was staring off into the empty shop floor, but was listening intently.

Aziraphale laughed. "No! Quite so."

"What about that old bottle one?" Theodolphus looked over to the book.

"Yes..." Aziraphale flipped gently through the pages. " _'A device whereby you may draw sundrie liquors out of one seeming vessell, all which shall be put in at one hole, and all drawne out of another'_. Turning water into wine, and so forth? It certainly has a— um, biblical flair." Another spark glinted in the magician's eyes.

"Perhaps instead of a rigged bottle, we could truss it up some. Let the audience examine a perfectly normal bottle, distribute the drinks to them as proof." He smirked. "They'd certainly appreciate that."

"Yes, yes! Along the lines of your head in a box... You could produce the drinks from a fine china cabinet. Make as if you were setting a table with people's preferences already served." Aziraphale's thoughts spun with a cascade of possibilities. A table full of goblets and shining crystalware, every colorful potion under the sun. An abundance of liquid jewels, shining under the limelight. _A drinking horn of plenty,_ he mused.

"Oh, clever. Hm." Theodolphus scribbled onto a paper in front of him. "I don't know that homemaking is my domain. I think something a little more sleek and simple." Aziraphale banished his imagined feast.

"What if... it were just from an empty box?" He scribbled a diagram on the sheet, Theodolphus nodding as he followed.

"That's it!" The man beamed, fleshing out the illustration. "More spectacle than a wine bottle, that's it exactly! The something from _nothing at all_. It's almost unremarkable in its simplicity. We should get started building it." He jumped up from the stool and busied himself gathering tools and boards. Aziraphale began to map out some careful dimensions, humming pleasantly as he puzzled out the math.

By lunch they had built and finished their prototype, and everything had come together perfectly. Aziraphale had used the opportunity to poke through the magician's cabinets and shelves as he looked for tools or picked up scraps of wood trim. There was, as he suspected, nothing to be found, and he let himself get caught up in the task at hand. He may have also nudged some of his poor carpentry work into behaving, but he was no less proud. They stepped back to admire their work. 

"Superb, Elzevier." Theodolphus looked happily at the small cabinet they had built. "We can work with this tomorrow, if you're able. I'll need to train one of the assistants on this in the meantime. "

"Yes, we can rehearse then. Same time?" Aziraphale brushed the sawdust from his vest and rolled down his sleeves. It had been ages since he had worked with any tools other than his bookbinding equipment, and he felt invigorated.

"That would be splendid. Good work today, feels like a miracle. You should come around more often." They shook hands. "It's a shame you're not on this side of the pond permanently. Could I interest you in lunch?"

"I'm afraid I have another sales engagement," Aziraphale demurred. Theodolphus picked up a broom and began to sweep away their mess. 

"As long as you aren't selling anyone else this secret," he laughed. "I'll see you first thing tomorrow morning!" Aziraphale packed away his books and waved over to Mr. Groff.

"Until tomorrow!" 

Aziraphale exited the workshop, ensuring the door locked behind him on his way out. He pulled out the card with the address that Crowley had given him and, after asking around for directions, found himself at the front door of a factory. From the sidewalk he could hear belts and wheels thundering away inside. He rounded the building corner into the alley, sighting Crowley smoking on the building's wooden loading dock. _Is that what's in fashion these days?_ he wondered, taking in Crowley's dark heathered trousers and ashen shirtwaist. Despite his usual gangly stature, Crowley seemed somehow lost in the loose clothing. The angel expected the baggy American cut would suit Crowley's carefree demeanor, not leave him quiet and smothered; but he didn't appear to stand out from all the men around the factories and warehouses, so Aziraphale dismissed his rising concern. _Don't be so dramatic. You've done enough damage already,_ he chastised himself. _Aren't some empty decades sufficient to humble you?_ The angel pulled himself up and stepped out of the street.

"Aha, speak of the devil!" He laughed nervously as he wandered down the alley. 

"Eurgh, angel, rather you didn't," Crowley replied, tapping his cigarette ash into the dirt. "And you weren't speaking to anyone."

"Well, I, um. I meant more in the general sense. You know. Fancy seeing you here. New York." Aziraphale looked up from where he had settled in the dusty street, fidgeting with the handle of the valise and trying to read past the wire and leather safety glasses on Crowley's face. Crowley breathed out a plume of smoke. With another huff, he straightened up from where he had been leaning against the brick wall and stepped over to the edge of the dock. He sat down on the ledge and dangled his feet over, stubbing out the remains of the cigarette. 

"So. Michael's brought you here." 

"How did you...?" Aziraphale wondered if perhaps Heaven had been on the trail of something after all. The thought of Michael knowing something he didn't made him suddenly more nervous. 

"You wouldn't leave London if it weren't an assignment. And if Michael's here hunting demons then I'm sure it's at her behest." Crowley arched an eyebrow, a question mark waiting for confirmation.

"Yes, that's— you've got the gist of it," Aziraphale said humbly, assured in Crowley's ever-insightful analysis. "Always quick on the uptake." This time, both of Crowley's eyebrows shot upwards, a faint slice of smile creeping onto his face.

"Let me guess, then..." The demon mustered up every gracious thought he'd ever had about the archangels. "These cities of industry are far too cold and calculating and are a threat to Heaven's position as the paragon standard, so Michael has you out on a smiting tour de force, er, literally."

"No!" Aziraphale stepped back aghast. He looked up at Crowley, who was smirking, and realized it was in jest. How long had it been since he'd heard such a provocation? He cleared his throat and straightened his vest. "Very funny."

"Oh, archangels? They're always funny." Crowley's smirk broke into a wide smile, and he draped one elbow over the dock post, leaning his weight on it idly. 

"You wouldn't say that if you met one," Aziraphale replied, stepping back towards the dock and placing the valise on it. Crowley wondered if he was in for another lecture about the smiting righteousness of Heaven. He could already hear Aziraphale chastising him to _know thine enemy_ and _stay alert_ because _an archangel would brook no argument_. One of Aziraphale's hands was still worrying the case's handle, and he looked back out towards the street to see if he had been followed. "I don't think Gabriel would recognize a joke if it crashed through the pearly gates wearing a sequined robe." 

Crowley broke into spasmodic laughter. Aziraphale felt an ill pull in his stomach at mocking his direct superior, but the ringing of Crowley's laugh was worth it. It was reassuring to see no anxiety or fear reflected back at him. Their odd friendship had always been naturally rife with tension, and he noticed faintly in passing that it was still an easier companionship than that of his angelic brotherhood, even on the far side of a looming, forty-year gulf. _I don't think I've ever_ noticed _the absence of archangels,_ the thought struck him.

Crowley stretched widely, feeling energized, and adjusted his glasses. "So," he started again. "What _does_ bring you and Lucifer's back scratcher all the way to America?" 

The angel grimaced reproachfully at the epithet. "Michael has a mite in her feathers that people are— well. Actually consorting with demons. Summoning them up, brokering deals." 

Crowley scoffed. "You _know_ they _are_ , right?" He tilted his head, smirking. "Like that time Paganini was—"

"Yes, but they aren't, here!" Aziraphale interjected, looking, Crowley thought, like a fluffed up pigeon. "It's _stage magic_ and Michael _doesn't understand it_ and then you had to go pop in—"

"Oi."

"Sorry," Aziraphale cast his gaze down to his hands. "They— I let my nerves get the better of me. When they come down."

Crowley looked doubtful. "Don't apologize for them. They're clearly ignorant."

"You can't just _say things like that_ ," the angel replied. 

"Please. You said it yourself," Crowley said. Aziraphale tensed. _Think, idiot_ , Crowley berated himself. _He'd never speak against the greater good_. "I mean, magic."

"Oh, yes," Aziraphale relaxed. "They, um. They haven't been exposed to it, I suppose. In Heaven."

"And they dragged you along to America as an expert?" 

"Of a sort. I studied with Maskelyne a few decades ago, but I don't think that factored into Michael's decision to root out demons here. She's very... single-minded."

"Wait," Crowley hopped down into the dirt alley so he could look Aziraphale in the eye. " _You_ studied with the magician John Nevil Maskelyne?" Crowley's face was spreading into a manic grin. 

"Yes!" Aziraphale beamed. "You know who he is? He taught the most marvelous class on prestidigitation. It was so clever, conjuring birds and things, so incredibly creative. Really, well... magical." He sighed fondly.

"Angel." Crowley pulled himself up to his full height. He wrenched up his face forcefully before attempting to return it to a cool, drawn line. Aziraphale could still see a hint of a smirk. "Why on Earth—no, why between the infinite realms of Heaven and Hell— would you ever _learn stage magic_."

"It's fun! You love theater," Aziraphale countered. Crowley crossed his arms and folded his forehead into one hand. 

"We are creatures of inordinate mystical power, and you're doing parlor tricks." He was massaging his head.

"It's more than _parlor tricks_ ," the angel said. "You have no idea how much work this takes."

"None— at all," said Crowley emphatically, suddenly flipping up a card from behind the hand just at his face. 

"But you cheated! You can't miracle an illusion."

"'S not cheating when it's _real_ , Aziraphale." _Stop worshipping all your deceptions,_ he thought, frustrated.

"That explains why you're sabotaging poor Theodolphus," Aziraphale glowered.

"Hng— No." Crowley vanished the card from existence and returned to a lazy lean against the dock. "I'm just a hired gun."

"Don't make excuses," Aziraphale said testily. "I presume you're in league with Banks? You've tempted him into hostile acts of jealousy?" 

"Rrrrgh," Crowley rolled his eyes, a full-body maneuver that was visible with or without the safety glasses. "I'm not working for Banks because I _like magic_. It's just rife with nonsense. People scamming each other. Spinning up lies about the dearly departed. The nagging insecurity of wondering how a trick was done, and the deeply unsatisfying resentment of finding out. Everybody loses."

"That seems beneath you."

"Nothing's beneath me, I'm a demon. Hell's as low as you can go."

Aziraphale clasped his hands together tightly. He felt as if he were standing on a tightrope, and one imperceptible shift would send him tumbling. Slowly, he chose his next words with specific care. "I only meant... usually your ideas are a lot grander." 

Crowley made a wide-mouthed hacking gesture, like a cat spitting up a hairball. "Blech. _Compliments_." The angel gave him a melancholy smile. Aziraphale wrung his hands slightly as their conversation hung in the air. _A hiccup,_ he hoped. He heard footsteps on the loading dock and turned to see the newcomer, realizing with a panic that he had not been watching for Michael. 

"Ah, gentlemen," a young man stepped towards them and looked down from the dock. "May I help you?"

"Monty," Crowley said, dipping his head in acknowledgement. "This man's here on business."

Aziraphale reached up to shake his hand. "Professor Faustus Elzevier. I sell historic magic texts to collectors. And consult on illusions." 

"I see," the man said. "Montgomery Banks." He had a terse and calculating smile. Aziraphale then reached out to Crowley, tilting his head to say _Back into character_.

Crowley shook Aziraphale's hand once, tensely, nearly frozen in place. "Hng— Lyle. Lascientia. I'm a producer for Banks." Aziraphale smiled again, their hands clasped and unmoving. 

Banks cleared his throat. "Well, I know a con when I see one," he laughed. "You clearly know each other."

Aziraphale coughed, dropping Crowley's hand. "I— I don't—" he stammered. 

"Relax," Banks said, waving his hand dismissively. "We don't judge here." Aziraphale felt a numb static shoot through every limb and extremity. He worried suddenly that he was very out of his depth.

"Truth be told," the man continued. "I'm sure I can't afford your charge. I'm not exactly a man of means, you see." He gestured to himself, dressed in a worn suit, his hair greased back. "But Lyle here will get whatever it is we need, regardless. No compunction." He winked, and Aziraphale was sure this man would let no thing, no law, stand in the way of his aspirations. He understood how Hell would approve of Crowley's choice of operation.

Crowley nodded the brim of his hat to Banks. "I have news for you about... Teddy," he said, his gaze scuttling briefly over to meet Aziraphale's. 

"Alright. Find me when you're back from lunch," Banks said. He turned back to Aziraphale. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Elzevier." They shook hands again, and Banks entered the back entrance of the factory. Ripples of unease prickled at Aziraphale. _Perhaps it's just the lingering sin,_ he thought. 

"'Faustus Elzevier', eh?" Crowley said, sidling over and interrupting his thoughts. "Bit old fashioned, innit?"

"It's _sophisticated_!" Aziraphale said, somewhat desperately. He pouted. "I don't expect you to understand. You don't even like magic, apparently."

"I like magic perfectly well, angel, and this," Crowley thumbed towards the door where Banks had disappeared, "isn't it."

"Well—" Aziraphale started. He felt his hands clenching again at his sides. He let out a deep, steady breath, willing himself to calm. "Please do be careful with it. Michael got a read on you last night at the theater."

"So, you're not going to give that up?" Crowley asked, ever bored by the angel's moralizing.

"I..." Aziraphale was wearing a pained look. Crowley furrowed his brow. A storm of thoughts flew through Aziraphale's mind, none of which he could utter aloud. _Neither drop it nor divulge,_ Aziraphale thought. _So long as none of it will have to see the light of divine paperwork._

"Never known you to give up a chance to say 'I told you so'."

Aziraphale swallowed thickly. "That's the whole reason I'm here. You have to be cautious. An archangel..." The rest of his thought died in his throat. _Would smite you clean out of existence._

"Yes, yes. I'm not an idiot." Crowley sighed, exasperated. _Of the two of us, who was being realistic about threats?_ he thought. The satisfaction of being right did not sit half as well as he anticipated. He scratched under his hat awkwardly, knocking it off kilter. "How do I know this isn't a set-up? You, _selling books_?" He mustered an expectant grin. Aziraphale drew up, smiling in mock outrage. 

"These are my _fellow collectors_ ," he tutted. "It's only right I can... pass things along temporarily."

"Yes, I'm sure you picture yourself right alongside them, _Professor_."

"Oh, as opposed to you! Mocking these poor performers, ruining all their hard work. While still finding it to work _singularly_ within the sphere of magician competition." The familiarity of this dance swept readily over both beings.

"Hm. Not now, 'm not," Crowley stood upright again, stuffing his hands into his worn pockets. "Lunch break."

"If you don't mind accompaniment, I'll join you," Aziraphale said, picking up his valise again. "I'll buy."

He stepped forward towards Crowley, who locked in place. Aziraphale reached up to the side of his friend's head, and brought his hand back down between their faces. Pinched between his fingers was a large and shining coin.

"Ah, I see _you're_ buying, my good man. What a strange place to keep your pocket money. Absolutely spiffing." He grinned. Crowley shook his head with a look of comic revulsion, and started wandering out of the alley. 

"Aziraphale, you are an entire embarrassment to our species. I should get discorporated just so I can avoid your patter for a while." Aziraphale smiled to himself and placed the coin back into his pocket, striding to catch up as they left to find lunch.

* * *

Michael sat on a wooden bench, staring at the marble hallway surrounding her. The wooden door to her left opened, and an older, balding man stepped out. 

"Ah, Ms. Michael. Thank you for waiting," he said, motioning her to enter. Inside was a small office with several bookshelves and a large wooden desk. Michael carefully composed herself in the seat across from him. 

"Father," she said, glancing up at the crucifix behind him. "I was hoping you could help me with something."

"Yes, of course," the priest said.

"I'm worried about... saving souls."

He looked at her curiously. "You'll have to be more specific than that."

"I have recently been in attendance at a magician's demonstration," she started, carefully. It would not do to accidentally reveal herself as an angel; she couldn't go around terrifying and mindwiping people into telling her what she needed to know. Hell could not see her coming. _This must be done subtly,_ she reminded herself. "He claims to have captured a demon. And I have been told that this is only a small example of a larger movement of people contacting the dead. Conversing with all kinds of phantasms."

"Oh, you mean spiritualism. Mediumship," the priest said, nodding. 

"So I'm told. Although I have yet to witness it myself."

"Isn't that just how it goes?" the priest said idly, smiling. Michael was mildly perplexed by his comment. He leaned forward on his desk. "Seeking answers to things we can't experience."

"It isn't... deep mystery," she tried another tack. "I'm concerned about those who have passed on. _Requiescat in pace_. They should not be disturbed."

"Who are we to say what the nature of the world is?" the priest asked. Michael pursed her lips. The only beings with more authority were Gabriel and the Metatron, who spoke for God Herself these days. _They have to find the divine themselves_ , she repeated, a mantra. _Their knowledge is imperfect_. And an unapproved direct intervention was only to be used as a last resort. Preferably to _intervene_ a demon into non-existence.

"Hm. As you say. Then they're meddling with forces beyond their comprehension."

"Be that as it may. 'Demons' as you say calls to mind some drastic measures, but such cause for concern is unlikely. It sounds as if you are open to casting a far wider net in your interests."

"Regardless of y— _our_ understanding, I am obliged to pursue this," Michael continued, in hopes he could give her something more specific to go on. "Perhaps you know an expert?" The priest leaned back in his chair and, for a few moments, stared distantly out the window. He turned back to her, folding his hands in his lap.

"I don't know that this would grant you any peace yourself, but I believe there is a spirit photographer down on Charter Street," he said, somewhat unsure. "They may have a more detailed understanding."

"I'm sure they're less secretive than magicians," she said. Michael collected herself and stood to exit. "Thank you for your assistance."

"Any time," the priest said, walking her to the door. 

Michael nodded graciously and left the church to find the spirit photographer. As the priest had suspected, she found the studio on Charter Street. She entered the brick building, ascending the stairs to the top floor. A windowed door had been painted with the word PHOTOGRAPHER. in black, simple lettering. Unsure of what she might encounter on the other side, Michael opened the door.

Inside the studio was a desk and, central to the room, a large camera on legs. The wall at the front of the building was made of overly tall windows, which filled the space with expansive light. Looking down on the streets below, Michael felt oddly that this reminded her of Heaven, if only a bit messier. Heaven surely would not have a haphazard pile of furniture and drapery packed into a back corner. She wondered distractedly if this was Someone's idea of a joke, or if it was, more likely, a cover for their Satanic endeavors. _Surely the latter._

A graying man with a curling mustache approached her at the door. 

"Miss...? May I help you?" 

"Yes, Mister..." She watched him carefully, looking for signs of possession or some demonic partnership. 

"Dreher, please. And yours?" 

"Ms. Michael," she supplied. "I've been told you're a spirit photographer." Something sparkled in his eyes when she said this.

"You're a believer, then?" He smiled.

"Of course," said Michael. "But a believer in search of facts." A pensive look drew across Dreher's face, considering her words. 

"I myself am a scientist of this art," he said, measured. "But I'm afraid the methods lean more towards the latter. There isn't much we know, although I suppose it's that mystery which drives my curiosity. To reach into the unknown is our greatest capacity, and so I do." 

"How do you capture your subjects?" Michael asked, aiming for innocent curiosity. "Do you communicate with them? Lure them to the Earthly plane?" 

"Nothing so studied, unfortunately. I believe they manifest of their own accord, perhaps pulled to the emotions of a living relative or some other unseen connection."

"So you don't..." she chose her words carefully. "Take any occult action? To collect them?" He guided her over to the desk, on which sat a book filled with portrait photography. Each image had some kind of hazy white figure in it, juxtaposed with the intended subject. 

"Simple photography," Dreher said, gesturing at the photos. "That is the science. Our studies let us see further every day. Or rather, we are granted some sight." Michael supposed that perhaps these people were being used unwittingly, or even worse, their spirits somehow perturbed after death without conscious action. It would take an immense power to create such a concealed approach. An utterly unknown threat, yet undetectable to the forces of Heaven. _Heaven itself could be used without our knowledge_ , she speculated.

"Granted?" she asked. "By whom?"

Dreher laughed. "It's no Faustian bargain, if that's what you mean," he chuckled. "I meant just that the fates have seen fit to deem us worthy."

"Sorry," she paused. "What's a 'faustian bargain'?" A look of confusion crossed his face.

"You know. Like the play." They exchanged bewildered looks. Michael shook her head. "Goethe?" 

She pursed her lips, noting to inquire into this at a later opportunity. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar." 

"Well, no trouble," he shrugged. "It has nothing to do with photography anyway."

"In that case, can you show me how it works? Photographing a ghost, I mean."

"We'd have to schedule an appointment, later, to take your photo," he said.

"No, I meant the process. How you get the spirits to appear," Michael said, more stridently than she intended. No matter; she was resolute in her task. Perhaps throwing him off his rhythm would shake loose a truth.

"Um, that's not— no," he said clumsily. "It's just a photo, and—" _This smells like a setup_ , Michael thought. She walked back over to the door.

"I'll be sure to schedule an appointment, then," she said, placing her gloved hand on the doorknob. "Thank you for enlightening me." The man nodded, a pinched look on his face, a slight flush starting to curl up his neck. _This is promising_ , she thought, and closed the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> Thanks to various nonnies and [Balder12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balder12/pseuds/Balder12) for their beta! If you like the spies/secret agents angle, be sure to check out their spy AU [The End of an Era](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22230562).
> 
> And some more [background notes](https://verucapsalter.tumblr.com/post/190676668996/chapter-3-books-books-books-hermes-shipping) for folks who like that.


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